


Safety

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: During Canon, Gun Kink, Kinks, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-21
Updated: 2006-08-21
Packaged: 2018-09-03 09:08:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8706343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: "Dean is away gathering something. Supplies? Food? Information? Probably more phone numbers from women that he'll never call." Gun!porn story.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

Title: Safety  
Author: closetcrombie  
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean  
Rating: NC-17, straight up  
Category: slash  
Word Count: 3400  
Spoilers: none  
Summary: He licks his lips, and kicks the door closed behind him, stepping over the liquor bottle he dropped and broke when he walked in to the sight of his brother spread out on the bed, one hand around his cock, the other fucking his mouth with the gun Sam had given him ten years ago.  
Warnings: Incest, gun kink, slight reference to underage!wincest, waste of perfectly good alcohol due to Sam's blistering hotness  
Disclaimer: I hereby disclaim everything that, by law, has to be disclaimed.  
Notes: Originally, this was just gonna be masturbation fic. It still is, but fuck all if it didn't grow into major gun!porn as well. And then there's the head...there's always the head to think about...  
  
  
 

  
  
Dean is away gathering something.  
  
Supplies?  
  
Food?  
  
Information?  
  
Probably more phone numbers from women that he’ll never call.  
  
Sam swears up and down that the only reason Dean goes out to bars anymore when they aren’t needing money is for the ego boost of being the center of every breathing female in the room’s attention.  
  
Its not like he can blame, because he’s done it himself a time or two, and its how they score some of their most valuable information (Really, there’s only so much you can get out of a tight-lipped, grieving widow. Her slightly intoxicated son, however, can be a veritable fountain of information.), and he’s certainly not complaining at this point, because he’s had a hard-on since two hundred miles ago when Dean stretched out obscenely across the front seat while Sam was driving - face down-turned to hide the smirk that Sam knew was playing on his lips even as the fabric of his shirt rode up to expose a strip of golden skin to Sam’s eyes and his hands ghosted over his thighs to rub at his crotch in a way that Sam was sure was intended to look casual.  
  
So he takes his time about showering, because Dean never goes on these little excursions without taking at least three hours to come back, and he’s already salted the doors and windows, so even if Dean DOES come back earlier than expected he can’t bitch, and takes a particularly nasty pleasure in using all of the motel-supplied shampoo.  
  
Sam wraps a towel around his waist, grimacing at the roughness of the fabric as it scratches against his skin, and steps out of the tub, grabbing the only other towel that was been provided for the room. He uses it to dry his hair enough so it isn’t dripping wet anymore and drops it carelessly beside the sink counter. He smiles to himself, because he knows Dean won’t think to check for a towel before he gets in the shower, and will subsequently be pissed off when he has to come into the room sopping wet to retrieve one.  
  
This, he realizes, has two benefits. The first of which being: he gets to piss Dean off, and it’s nothing that isn’t deserved for the little stunt he pulled in the Impala. The second is, of course, that he gets to see his brother naked. And it‘s not like he‘s never seen Dean naked before, but a naked, wet, pissed off Dean Winchester isn’t too far down the list of things Sam thinks would be nice to see before he dies.  
  
He writes “Dean Winchester is a cock sucker,” on the mirror, still fogged up from the steam of his shower, and laughs to himself, knowing that the odds of Dean noticing it when he gets out of his own shower are slim, but still amused at the possibility.  
  
Sam steps fully into the room, the temperature difference in the cool tile and the fibers of the carpet making his toes curl into the warmth. He walks over to the table where he set his bag down upon first entering, and unzips it, glancing over his shoulder to check the time.  The clock on the bedside table reads 6:49, and Sam sighs in annoyance, because they didn’t get to the motel until about eight. He figures that he took about half an hour in the shower, and has maybe two and half left until Dean makes his way back.  
  
He rummages around in his duffel bag for a few seconds, looking for a pair of clean underwear before he remembers that he’ll be alone for a few hours yet and stops. He wraps the towel around his waist tighter and shivers, feeling the air conditioner blowing on his damp skin. He smiles shortly thereafter, however, because he knows that Dean will be in the same position soon, only worse off, because Sam is at least partially dry. He also considers turning down the temperature on the unit, but decides it can wait as he spots Dean’s bag resting against the wall beside the door to their room.  
  
He picks it up, a bit surprised at the lack of weight. He always thought Dean’s bag would be heavier, with all the denim and leather and shit he seems to like wearing. And really, that’s not a complaint; because Dean in leather is nice to look at, and if Sam has to put up with his brother’s attitude, he had better at least have something pretty to take his mind off of it.  
  
He opens the bag tentatively, because he’s not entirely sure Dean doesn’t have it wired to explode if someone were to open it the wrong way. When nothing happens, Sam hazards a look inside. There is a variety of things in it, mostly unfolded jeans and shirts that Sam is sure will wrinkle, and he reaches in to feel the fabric of Dean’s clothes, envying them and their perpetual closeness to Dean’s skin for a second. His fingertips trail over the roughness of the denim of Dean’s favorite jeans - the ones with the little tear just on the inside of the thigh that Sam can’t convince Dean to patch for anything - and the smooth, well-worn cotton of one of his many t-shits.  
  
His hands delve deeper into his brother’s belongings and brush across a hard, cool object. Sam pushes Dean’s clothes out of the way and peers into the bag, smiling when he sees what he encountered.  
  
Sam pulls out the gun from the bag, feeling its weight in his palm, familiar and new all at once. He takes out the clip, and the gun disengages smoothly, making Sam’s smile widen. He reinserts the magazine, and it slides home with a satisfying _click_.  
  
 He touches the barrel lightly, fingertips seeking out and finding the safety - already engaged because Dean is too cautious, too intelligent, to carry around a loaded weapon _without_ the safety on - the cool metal warming at the touch of his skin, remembering when he had given the weapon to his brother.  
  
He had been twelve, and it was the first gun their father had ever taught him to shoot. Dean’s sixteenth birthday went by almost unnoticed by their father, and Sam was at a loss for what to give him. He was twelve, and broke, and money was tight, so asking Dad for some cash was out of the question. He had slid into bed with his brother that night, and whispered a quiet “Happy Birthday, Dean,” placing his most prized possession into his brother’s hand before slipping out of his bed and into the hallway to pad back to his own room. He hadn’t bothered to wait for Dean’s reaction, because he was sort of scared that his brother wouldn‘t like his present.  
  
Sam stares at the gun in his hand, shaking his head in astonishment, because it is in practically the same condition now as it was then, and Dean must have been taking an excruciating amount of time with the upkeep. He had honestly forgotten about giving the gun to Dean, and seeing it again, and in such a place as Dean’s duffel bag, was mind blowing.  
  
His hand molds to the pistol, fingers instinctively falling into the correct positions, and he marvels that, even after ten years, he still remembers exactly the way it felt to fire this gun, the way it kicked like a goddamn mule, and the way his brother’s eyes had softened in affectionate pride when Sam excitedly relayed his new ability to hit the center of the target at their father’s impromptu shooting range.  
  
He sweeps the fingers of his left hand over the glock, and remembers that this gun used to seem so big to his clumsy, adolescent self. He stares down at it, thinking about the way Dean’s hands, always so much surer than his own, would grip his when they had spare time to practice, guiding his own hands into the correctly position, whispering into his ear the correct way to stand, to lock his elbow for better control, to regulate his breathing, and the way he would ruffle his hair after Sam shot dead-center.  
  
He also remembers the way that, after their father felt they were old enough to do minor hunts alone, he could feel Dean’s erection dig into his lower back as they practiced, again breathing instructions in his ear, the same breathy whisper telling him to take his time, to relax his shoulder a little so that the gun’s recoil wouldn’t jam it, that maybe if he got it in one this time, he’d be allowed to suck Dean’s cock afterwards, and the way Dean’s hands would wind into his hair after he carried through with his promise.  
  
Sam’s fingers twitch on the gun, and he runs his fingertips along the smooth curves of the weapon, mouth going dry. He sits down on the bed and before he can really think about what he’s doing, Sam has the towel unwrapped from his waist, the cold metal of his brother’s gun is pressing into his dick, and he couldn’t have stopped the moan that tears free from his throat for anything less than the Second Coming.  
  
The smooth, cylindrical barrel of the gun rubs against the shaft of Sam’s cock as his free hand reaches down to grab his balls, and his dick twitches when he squeezes them lightly. He runs his hand back up to the top of his cock, and his fingers come into contact with the slick head at the same time that he presses the pistol onto his nipple. He groans as his nipple hardens, and his cock squirts a fair amount of precum onto his waiting fingers.  
  
He runs his slicked fingers up and down his straining erection, bringing the gun down to trace the metal along the thick vein on the underside, and his heart races in exhilaration and fear at the thought of a loaded weapon so close to his cock. His hand brushes against the pistol, and he hisses at the combined feeling of his own teasing fingers and the unyielding surface of the gun tracing paths over his throbbing dick.  
  
He drags the tip of the barrel up and over his skin, all the way to his mouth, where he hesitates at the thought of putting a **loaded gun** into his mouth, but the need to _feel_ something more than what he‘s experiencing right now wins out, and he begins to suck lightly on it, other hand still working his hard cock, furiously fisting it, thumb occasionally making a quick pass over the head to over-stimulate and gather the moisture collected there. He moans brokenly as he sucks, tasting the oils Dean uses to clean his weaponry, along with the sharp, metallic taste of the gun itself, all overlaid by the heady, salty-bitter taste of his own precum. If he concentrates, he can almost taste Dean on the gun, too.  
  
He speeds up the strokes of his hands on his dick, fingers tightening slightly, squeezing and teasing and twisting, slick and fast, while he sucks harder on the barrel of the gun, tongue exploring the ridges and planes of it, mapping out the bumps and lines in his mind until he knows the gun almost as well as he knows Dean’s cock.  
  
He hears the bottle break, and looks up to see Dean staring at him, eyes wide and dark, mouth open slightly, bulge in his jeans already noticeable, and steadily growing as he watches Sam’s hand makes its journey up and down his cock.  
  
He watches as Dean’s eyes focus on the pistol sliding in and out of his mouth, can almost see the exact moment that his shock wears off. The green of his eyes bleeds out slowly, and his breathing deepens. He licks his lips, and kicks the door closed behind him, stepping over the liquor bottle he dropped and broke when he walked in to the sight of his brother spread out on the bed, one hand around his cock, the other fucking his mouth with the gun Sam had given him ten years ago.  
  
Sam looks on as his brother pulls the chair from the table adjacent to the bed to directly in front of it, and breathes out Dean’s name as he sits down across from him. He removes the gun from his mouth momentarily in order to reach across and grab the lapels of Dean’s jacket and pull him in for a kiss that is all tongue and teeth and need. Dean’s hands wind into Sam’s hair, cupping the back of his head and angling them for better reach.  
  
Dean’s mouth tastes of beer, and he smells like cigarettes, and normally Sam would remark, but right now the only thing he can think about it the feel of his brother’s tongue sliding sensuously, so hotly, across and along his own, and how he never wants it to stop.  
  
Ever.  
  
But it does, and when Dean separates them, Sam is fighting to get back to his brother’s mouth, his tongue, his teeth, his breath. Dean places a shushing finger against Sam’s lips, and he sucks it into his mouth, not caring how wanton the action is. Dean’s fingers dance along the length of his aching erection; his other hand removes itself from Sam’s mouth, and reaches for the gun, rubbing the now-cool barrel against Sam’s lips.  
  
Dean’s eyes follow the movement of the pistol, and narrow when Sam’s tongue sneaks out to lave at the metal. Sam takes the gun into his mouth again, and Dean hisses when he hollows his cheeks, sucking obscenely on the barrel, the action producing wet, teasing noises.  
  
Dean’s hand joins Sam’s on his cock then, rough and hot, stroking and twisting and his thumbnail presses harshly into Sam’s piss slit just as he shoves the gun inside of Sam’s mouth as far as he can - and hot _damn_ if the knowledge that the gun his brother is using to _fuck his face_ is **loaded** doesn’t make Sam keen and writhe - and Sam’s hips buck wildly as he comes all over the two of them because _fuck all_ Dean always knows how to get to him.  
  
Sam is panting, and his vision is kind of swimming, but he can feel the gun being withdrawn from his mouth - hears it come free with a wet ‘pop’, and processes Dean’s answering moan at the sound. He looks down to see Dean’s hand working at his fly, having trouble because one hand is covered in Sam’s come.  
  
Sam grasps Dean’s wrists, bringing the come-covered hand up to lick it clean, and Dean moans at that too, so Sam takes his time. He swirls his tongue over and around Dean’s fingers, paying close attention to the spaces between them and he bites gently at each finger as he finishes with it.  
  
He releases Dean’s hands and slides off of the bed and onto the floor, coming to rest in a kneeling position between his brother’s spread legs. He places his hands on Dean’s thighs and leans forward, grasping the denim of his brother’s jeans between his teeth and yanking. The button releases, and Sam can hear Dean’s choked groan above him, “Sammy,” and he grins lustily, going back and nuzzling Dean’s erecting before grabbing hold of the zipper with his mouth and pulling it down, tooth by, what he is sure must be, agonizing tooth.  
  
When Dean’s boxers are visible, Sam starts to mouth the hard cock outlined in the material, and Dean’s hips roll up into Sam’s mouth as he cries out. Sam’s hands come up and pull down the elastic waistband of Dean’s underwear, and he breathes in the musky scent of Dean’s cock when it is bared to his hungry gaze.  
  
He goes to work immediately, all taste for foreplay gone and over with as soon as he sees his brother’s hard, weeping dick.  
  
His lips fasten around the knob of Dean’s cock head, teeth grazing the flesh in his haste, and Dean’s hand wind in his hair again, jerking to serve as a warning, and Sam whimpers an apology before his tongue is in his brother’s slit, roughly swiping over the sensitive skin. Sam can feel the ridge of the head of Dean’s dick pressing against the inside of his lips, and he swallows the saliva and precum he’s got in his mouth already before going down in earnest.  
  
He takes in all of Dean’s cock, going until he can feel the curly hair of Dean’s pubes tickling his nose, and when he gets to that point, he swallows convulsively and continually as one of his hands come up and toy with Dean’s balls.  
  
He comes up for air, coughing a bit, and he sees Dean grin at that, so he goes back to work twice as hard. His lips suction around the head of Dean’s prick. His teeth graze the flesh again, and Dean’s hands again jerk at his hair, but instead of backing off, he does it again, moaning as he feels his brother’s fingers curl into his scalp. He fondles Dean’s balls and sucks hard once, twice, and is about to a third time when those hands pull him off of Dean’s cock.  
  
He keens in the back of his throat, and tries to get back to that stiff, spit-slick dick in front of his face, but Dean is having none of it. Instead, he holds Sam’s head where it is with one hand, and uses the other to jerk himself off. He pulls on his cock roughly, and Sam finally understands. He looks up at Dean, eyes wide and dark, lips swollen and bruised, hair wild and still damp from his shower earlier and says,  
  
“C’mon, Dean. I wanna feel your come on my face, big brother. Come all over me.”  
  
Dean’s hand speeds up, and he groans out Sam’s name brokenly as he strokes his cock harshly, one hand flush against his dick, the other wound into Sam’s hair, keeping him in place as he jerks himself off, the visual of walking in and finding his brother in that position, the feel of Sam’s mouth around his cock replaying in his mind again and again.  
  
Sam moans as Dean cries out his name, his hand still roughly working over his cock, even as the first ropey strand of come lands on Sam’s cheek, scaldingly hot. Sam feels it like a brand. The second and third jets land on his chin and mouth, and his tongue snakes out to lick some of it off of his face, reveling in the taste and texture and _Deanness_ of it.  
  
Dean’s hand releases his hair, and Sam is pulled up for a kiss. Their teeth clink together, and Dean still tastes like beer, but it’s one of the best kisses they‘ve ever shared. Dean pulls back and licks Sam’s cheek, collecting his own come in his mouth, and kissing Sam again, transferring it into his baby brother’s mouth as their tongues slide wetly against each other’s. Sam feels a bit of saliva and spunk running down his chin when they break apart, and his fingers bring it back up and into his mouth. As he sucks them clean, he sees Dean smile. He’s still breathing heavily, and he leans his head forward onto his brother’s shoulder.  
  
They’re both quiet for a good while, and Sam’s eyes close sleepily before he jerks in surprise at Dean’s muttered, “Goddamn it!”  
  
He mumbles, “What the fuck is wrong now, Dean?” into the leather of Dean’s jacket, and he hears his brother curse again before he can feel Dean breathing, “That liquor cost me forty dollars, you little prick, and thanks to you I won’t get to enjoy a dime of it,” in his ear.  
  
Sam laughs, amused. He kisses the side of Dean’s neck lightly; sucking on what little exposed skin there is, before trailing his way up to his brother’s ear and nibbling on the fleshy lobe.  
  
“I have all night to make it up to you.”  
  
And if Sam is any judge of paybacks, by the way his name was on Dean’s lips for the rest of the night, he succeeded.  
  
~  
 


End file.
